Promise of the Rose (2 page)

The prince was his friend, Stephen told himself as his heart began to race and pound. He had been kind to him since he had arrived at Winchester—the only boy to be kind. But Stephen did not like the hungry way the prince was gazing at him, nor did he like the look of expectation and amusement on the faces of all the prince’s friends. He did not like the look of relief on the young villein’s face. Not only did Stephen feel as if he was the butt of a vast joke, he felt as if it was a cruel one—a dangerous one. He felt trapped. He pulled away from the prince’s embrace.

“No, thank you, my lord.”

Rufus rubbed his back. “So formal this eve, lad? Come, sit with me, tell me why you appear afraid of me all of a sudden.”

Stephen did not want to understand what was happening. But he did. He comprehended that the prince’s intentions were not simple friendship. He comprehended the prince’s unnatural lust.

As he stood, torn, not wanting to believe the worst, not wanting to give up his single friend, yet knowing he was in danger, knowing he must move, and flee, an unfamiliar young voice rang out. “Leave him alone. Will. Let him be!”

Stephen started as a youth he had never seen before shouldered forcefully through the boys. In size he did not appear any older than Stephen himself, but there was shrewdness and authority in his tone. Although his features were far more even, his hair far less bright, his resemblance to Rufus was unmistakable. This then was the King’s youngest son, Henry.

“Who asked you to interfere?” Rufus said coldly.

Henry’s smile was just as cold. “Are you stupid? Would you abuse the boy who would one day be Northumberland? Who would one day be your greatest ally?”

Stephen began to shake as final, full comprehension sank in. His heart was pounding now in fright and anger. The prince’s interest in him tonight had nothing to do with friendship—had never had anything to do with friendship. The betrayal—and disappointment—was vast.

“You will be sorry for this,” Rufus cried.

Rufus suddenly lunged at his brother, perhaps to throttle him, his face red with rage. Henry ducked, and as one, Stephen and Henry began to run. They raced out of the stable and into the bailey.

“This way!” Henry shouted, and Stephen followed the youngest prince back towards the donjon. A moment later they were safely in the great hall amongst the sleeping men.

They fell onto Stephen’s pallet together, panting and out of breath. To Stephen’s horror, he felt tears well. The same tears he had been fighting ever since he had ridden into the King’s household. He had the horrible thought that he wanted to go home.

But he would die before letting Henry see, so he turned his face away and regained control. When Stephen could speak, he said, “Thank you.”

“Forget it,” Henry said easily, the straw rustling as he sat up. “Didn’t anyone tell you to be careful of my brother, who is far fonder of boys than girls?”

“No.” Stephen stared at his hands. “He was kind. I thought he was my friend.” It hurt. He had no friends after all. Not here at court. He was far from home, and alone. Then he glanced sideways at Henry, who had come to his aid without being summoned. “Why did you help me?”

Henry grinned. “Because I do not like my brother. Because one day you will be Northumberland—and we will be allies.”

For the first time in his life, Stephen had an inkling of the power that would one day be his. “And if I were not Northumberland’s heir?”

Henry looked at him, no longer smiling. Finally he said, “I would be a fool to prick at my brother if it did not serve me well.”

Stephen could not help being disappointed. William Rufus had not been his friend, and neither was Henry. Henry had
come to his aid, not in an offer of friendship, but for reasons politic.

Henry crossed his arms over his knees. “You are such a baby. You will never survive to become Northumberland if you do not grow up.”

Stephen was annoyed then. “You are no older than me.”

“I am seven. And I have been raised at court, both here and in Normandy. I know of what I speak.” Then he smiled his winning smile. “An ally is far better than a friend.”

Stephen’s temper cooled and he thought carefully about it. Henry was right. Tonight had proved that. “Then we are allies,” he decided, his tone so firm that Henry slanted him a glance. “And I will stay away from your brother.” His lips thinned. He began to feel rage. How dare the prince treat him as he had the villein, when one day he would be Northumberland.

And one day the prince would be his King. Stephen sobered. One day Rufus would be his leige lord.

“Usually Rufus is better behaved,” Henry commented, “but in your case, because you are only a hostage, he assumed no one would care if he did as he willed.”

It took Stephen a full moment to comprehend what Henry had said. “I am no hostage.”

“Oh, come! You mean, you do not know? No one told you? Your father did not tell you?”

There was only disbelief. “I am no hostage. I foster with the King.”

“You are a hostage, Stephen. Just as Duncan is a check upon his father’s power, so, too, you are a check upon your father’s power.”

“But—my father and the King—they are friends!”

Henry was grave. “Once they were friends, but I know well of what I speak. I have heard my father rage about Lord Rolfe de Warenne. He is afraid, for he has given him too much, and what he has not given. Lord Rolfe has taken. You are here to guarantee that Lord Rolfe continues to support the King against his enemies.”

Suddenly Stephen felt even more alone than he had earlier. “He d-did not t-tell me,” he whispered, closing his eyes.

Henry said nothing.

Stephen could not move, could not breathe. His father had not told him the truth! He was no fostering youth but a hostage, and ’twas no great honor after all!

Stephen opened his eyes and clenched his fists. Rage engulfed him. How he hated the King for forcing him from his home, for forcing his father to give him up! His father—whom he loved—who had lied to him as well! Anguish ripped him apart. Now he understood his mother’s tears. Now he understood it all.

“I am sorry,” Henry said as if he meant it.

Stephen looked at him warily, then forced his anger down, at the same time fixing a smile upon his lips.

“ ’Tis better you know,” Henry said with a shrug. “What will you do?”

“Nothing changes,” Stephen stated, his tone not that of a six-year-old boy, but of a man. “I do my duty.”

But in that moment everything had changed, forever.

Near Carlisle. 1093

A
lovers’ tryst.
Mary could not help smiling to herself as she hurried away from the keep, careful not to be seen. It would be her very first such rendezvous, and excitement filled her.

She was in disguise. She had shed her fine outer tunic with its long, jewel-encrusted sleeves for a peasant’s coarse woolen shin. Her gold girdle had been exchanged for a braided leather belt, her pointy silk shoes for wooden clogs. She had even been clever enough to borrow a pair of rough wool socks from the dairymaid, and an old linen veil covered her blond hair. Although her lover was her betrothed, a clandestine meeting was out of the question for any lady, much less herself, and she was determined not to get caught.

Mary’s smile broadened. She was immersed in visions of her handsome laird sweeping her into his arms for her very first kiss. Her marriage had been arranged for political reasons, of course, so she knew very well how lucky she was to have fallen in love with Doug Mackinnon, a young man who had been her friend since childhood.

The sound of voices slowed Mary. For an instant she thought that Doug must have company, but then she realized that the voices were not speaking in Gaelic or English. With a gasp of fright she scrambled behind a big oak tree, crouching down in the grass. She peeped around it. For an instant she could not move, frozen with disbelief.

Norman soldiers filled the small glade in front of her.

Abruptly Mary haunched down even more, her heart slamming against her ribs. All thoughts of her tryst with Doug fled. Had she taken just one more step out of the woods and into the sunny glade she would have walked right into their camp!

Mary was afraid to move. She had been teased by her father many times that she was far too clever for a girl, and now her mind was already spinning out its own conclusions. Why were Norman soldiers there, on Scottish soil? Did they know of the wedding of the Liddel heir that would take place on the morrow? Liddel was an important outpost for her father, Malcolm, holding Carlisle and this part of the border for Scotland against the marauding, treacherous Normans. A fragile peace had reigned in the past two years since Malcolm had sworn fealty again to their Norman king, Rufus the Red, at Abemathy. Had the Normans been so clever, then, knowing that Liddel would be so preoccupied with the wedding festivities that they could camp under its very nose and spy—or do worse? Outrage swept through Mary. They were up to no good; she must relay this information immediately to Malcolm.

Her knees began to ache from squatting behind the tree. She raised herself slightly to take another peek at the Normans. They were making camp despite the fact that it was still several hours before dark. Scanning the group of men in front of her, she instantly saw why. Her eyes widened. One of the Normans was hurt. Two of the knights were helping a huge man dismount from his destrier, blood pouring down one of his powerful legs. Mary hated the sight of blood, but she did not look away. She could not. For she was looking at a man she had seen just once before, but had been unable to forget.

Suddenly it was hard to breathe—her lungs felt crushed and her mouth had gone dry. If only she had been able
to forget him. Two years ago at Abemathy he had stood behind his rotten King, William Rufus, towering over the King’s head of flaming red hair, his face a hard mask, while Rufus was openly smug. And beneath Rufus, on his knees in the dirt, had been her father, Malcolm, the King of Scotland, forced at the point of a sword to swear allegiance to the King of England.

Mary had been the only maiden present—women were not welcome at such events—and she had come in disguise. It had been a gathering of armies, after another attempt by Malcolm to invade and conquer Northumberland. She had been surrounded by much of the Scot army, all loyal to her father. Yet their numbers had been pitiful in comparison to the forces facing them—the most brutal in the land— that of the Earl of Northumberland. The man she could not remove her gaze from was bastard heir to the earl, Stephen de Warenne.

He had not noticed her then. She had been standing behind her brother, dressed as Edgar’s page, careful not to draw any attention to herself, she certainly did not want her own family to recognize her, for more than a scolding would come. Edgar had been an unwilling participant in her escapade, for he, too, knew how angry their father would be for this.

Mary had been mesmerized by the bastard heir, staring at him from around her brother’s shoulder. Once his gaze had connected with hers, a mere coincidence. The moment had lasted less than a heartbeat.

As she stared at Northumberland’s bastard now, Mary’s fists clenched. Her gaze was riveted on the man. He was one of her father’s worst enemies. She prayed his wound would cause him to die.

He did not appear to be at death’s door. Although he had to be weak from loss of blood and in great pain, he wore an expression similar to the one he had worn at Abemathy—hard and inscrutable. She knew he was ruthless: never had he showed the Scots any mercy. Was he incapable of feeling? Was he even immune to physical pain?

One large black tent had been erected in the open field, and the Northumberland banner already flew beside it. It was a striking flag, its field divided into three diagonal bands
of black, white, and gold, in its center a short-stemmed, bloodred rose. Mary watched as a page dragged fur pallets inside the tent while the two knights supporting de Warenne helped him limp within. The tent flap closed behind them.

Mary collapsed. She was perspiring heavily, her mouth absolutely dry. This was worse, so much worse, than she had first thought. Stephen de Warenne was not just ruthless but a great military commander, exactly like his father, and his prowess was undisputed. He was also ambitious. The family’s astonishing rise to preeminence from a history of landlessness was well known, and the whole realm feared the ambition of all the de Warennes. What was he doing here? What disaster did he intend to unleash upon Scotland now?

Mary knew she must return to the keep and seek an audience with her father. Yet she was terrified of moving, for to be caught by these men would be a catastrophe. Nothing could be worse. Despite her fear, somehow she must dare to creep backwards, farther into the woods, until she could safely turn and run.

The camp was busy. The horses were being unsaddled and fed. A small, smokeless fire had been stoked. Broadswords, battle-axes, lances, and shields were placed carefully by the heavy leather saddles. Every indication told Mary that this was a serious war party. If she did not escape now while the knights were still preoccupied with setting up their camp, she would have to wait until they slept, and then there would be watchful guards posted. Mary positioned herself in a crouch, refusing to give in to her fear. A twig snapped as she shifted her weight, but no one heard it.